If you told me Joe was fond of me, I'd have called you a liar. My fear of his tirades competed only with my hatred of him. It was a heavy load for a little girl to carry.

When Mom married Joe, I was nine and my brother, Danny, was 13. During the two years Mom dated Joe, he took us to baseball games and fancy restaurants. He gave us money for our birthdays and taught us how to fish. We were impressed.

We were also deceived.

Nothing-But-Trouble Kids

Family Portrait, 1957: Me, Mom, Danny and Daddy

The day of the wedding, Joe began his reign of terror. When he found me sitting on the church steps before the ceremony, he yelled at me to get up before I ruined my pale pink dress. I was so shocked, I nearly stumbled on my way into the church, eyes stinging with tears. But that was only a shadow of the darkness to come.

If I didn't say “good morning” in a cheerful enough voice to suit him, Joe made me go back to bed until I “got my attitude straight.” If I crossed my legs as I watched TV, he barked at me to quit showing off.

Our lives were filled with illogical demands, swearing and name-calling. Joe had Danny and me convinced that we were stupid, nothing-but-trouble kids. I trembled when he walked down the hall, talked to me or simply cleared his throat. We never knew when he'd explode next.

I later learned that this was typical behaviour for an alcoholic.

How could Mom make the same mistake twice, trading one addict for another?

Although Daddy was an alcoholic, he was the funny, affectionate kind. Uncle Jack once told me that Daddy would give you his last nickel or his final smile. But he was far away, in the sunny part of California. We lived in the northern, cold end of the state, where mean people take kids away from their fathers.

Even though we rarely heard from him, I knew Daddy missed us, too. I remember the last time Mom took Danny and me to visit him at his rooming house. He opened the box of his most precious belongings—the sharp-shooting medals he'd won—and gave each of us a couple. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and cried like a forgotten child. My hand clung tightly to Danny's as we made our way down the creaky stairs to Mom, waiting in the car. I bawled all the way home.

And now Mom had married this monster named Joe. Our hopes for seeing Daddy or living with him were ripped away from us forever.

“I Love You”
Seven months after the wedding and five days before Christmas, Danny and I were in our rooms, happy we had no homework for the next two weeks. A familiar, edgy voice shattered our peace: “Danny and Jeanette, get in here.”

Bracing ourselves for another verbal beating, we made our way down the hall to the den. Joe sat forward in his recliner, elbows resting on his legs, his face pale, his eyes dull. Mom sat with her head lying across her arms on the dining table, sobbing, her shoulders shaking.

“Sit down,” Joe said. He cleared his throat and stared out at the grey sky. His usually harsh voice fell flat as he forced the words from his throat: “Your dad was found dead today in his room.”

Danny ran out the back door, racing into the darkness for a place to hide from his agony. I simply stood there in shock. Confusion and hurt rolled around my belly and up to my brain. As I crumpled to the floor, Joe's beefy fingers reached for my shoulders, lifted me to his bear-like chest and pulled me onto his lap.

The man who I was convinced hated me, tenderly rocked me in his arms while I sobbed my heart out.

Cradling me, he uttered again and again, “I love you, Jeanette. I am so proud of you. I love you, honey. You are such a good girl. I love you.” For eternity or 10 minutes—I can't be sure—the room hushed while God spoke His sweet affection to my shattered heart through Joe. Yes. Ornery, impossible-to-please Joe stepped aside and let love peek through the iron bars of his heart so he could bathe a broken little girl with mercy.

Change of Heart

Before the Storm, 1965: Me and my brother with my other and Joe on their wedding day

Years later, Mom told me that Joe had been abused as a child, raised by a self-seeking tyrant. Mirroring the only role model he'd ever known, Joe had hidden a gaping wound in his heart by bullying and hurting others. While there was no justification for his years of abuse, it took Daddy's death to show us that there was a caring man inside of Joe.

Several years later, Joe became a Christian. He spent the next four decades saying “thank you” to God for His work of grace in his heart.

At Joe's funeral three years ago, I choked back sobs as person after person stood to testify of this monster- turned-new-creature who had touched their lives with God's love. Danny told of Joe being his fishing partner; my cousin shared that Joe had introduced him to Jesus and the chance for a new life; fellow Christians told of Joe's tireless efforts to get the Bible into schoolchildren's hands, so they could become part of God's family.

And I remember the man who, on the most horrible night of a little girl's life, changed his name from “Joe” to “Dad.”